


The Life and Opinions of Justin Massey, Knight

by ariel2me



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Justin is not a reliable narrator, crack!fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-23 20:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ser Justin Massey recounts Stannis Baratheon's war for the Iron Throne, with multiple digressions and diversions, mainly about himself.  Title inspired by "The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman."</p><p>Chapter IX: Justin Massey tried to impress Asha Greyjoy with tales of his illustrious ancestors. Richard Horpe brought up Justin's less-than-illustrious ancestor Lucifer Massey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter I**

The name is Massey, Ser Justin Massey. The first you may have heard of me in this great tale of the War of the Five Kings was during the battle of Blackwater Bay, where I saved King Stannis from certain death, forcing him off the battlefield once all hope for victory was lost. I have long suspected, however, that the King hold a grudge against Horpe and myself for this act, though he never said as much until some time later. Knowing his iron will and ferocity, doubtless he would have preferred to stay and die fighting. But there, gentle reader, I am getting ahead of myself. This is a long, involved, and complicated tale, and it would not do to skip ahead and jump around. In all things, we must be methodical.

You may have also heard tales of my unbridled ambition from various sources. Now dear reader, you would do well to consider who those sources are, their own situation in life, and what might be gained by telling such tales about myself. I leave it in your hands to judge the "truthfulness" of those tales.

From the boy commander of the Night's Watch, you may have also heard tales of my ambition to become Lord of Winterfell. I confess, dear reader, that I did bring up the subject with His Grace, one freezing afternoon on the Wall after our great victory against the wildlings. But it was only because Richard Horpe had made the same request earlier in the day. The history of my contentious relationship with _that_ particular gentleman is too long and complicated in nature to recount in this short introduction, but rest assured, I will describe each and every harm he has ever done me, in full, in subsequent chapters. You will understand why I did what I did then.

There, I seem to have gotten ahead of myself again. Why were we at the Wall in the first place, I hear you ask? We were there because the Black Brothers called for us. More accurately, called for King Stannis to help protect the Wall from an attack by the wildling force, led by the man calling himself "The King Beyond the Wall". Or even more accurately – because I am determined to be the one bringing you the truest tale in these complicated times – they called for assistance from all the Five Kings involved in the war.

Now I have heard some say that if the King in the North were still alive, he would have answered the call, and more promptly than King Stannis did. To those doubters I would tell them this – it is easy enough to glorify the dead, to imagine acts of valor and bravery they would have committed if only they had lived. Yet the undeniable truth is this; the dead can neither save the living nor protect a kingdom, only the living can. King Stannis, with his force depleted after our inglorious defeat at Blackwater Bay, was the only one to answer the call.

Sadly, dear reader, I am not in a position to clarify how the decision to come to the aid of the Black Brothers was made. Some say it was the influence of the red priestess. Others claim it was Lord Davos who persuaded the King. And there are others still who whisper dark tales about the late King Robert's bastard, the boy brought over from Storm's End. How that boy was involved in this matter is a mystery to you and I both. That is one part of the tale, my faithful reader, that you will have to hear from the quills of others.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

I had intended, gentle reader, to begin this chapter by delineating the complete history of my family, from the days of Aegon the Conqueror to this very day. The Massey is an old, old family, and if our family history cannot be found in the history books written by the maesters in Citadel, it is only because such books have a tendency to neglect the smaller Houses in the Seven Kingdoms, in favor of the bigger, more powerful ones.

Whether the maesters have their own reasons for doing so, I leave it to my faithful reader to judge. I will only submit this for your consideration: human nature being what it is - and the maesters are still human, no matter what vows they took - it is more pleasant and comfortable to serve as a maester for a rich and powerful House, than to serve an impoverished one.

There are exceptions, of course, such as the late Maester Cressen, who left the service of Storm's End, the rich and powerful seat of House Baratheon, to follow King Stannis (then still Lord Stannis) to Dragonstone, a very poor seat in comparison. But these exceptions are few and far between, you will not be surprised to know, my faithful reader.

Where was I? I was about to tell you that I sadly have had to change my plan for this chapter. But only to please you, dear reader, and to put your mind at ease. For it seems that I have ended the last chapter in an unintended cliffhanger. Did King Stannis award me the land and position as Lord of Winterfell? Am I now Lord Justin Massey, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North? And therefore tragically unable to continue telling you the tales of the War of the Five Kings?

Fear not, gentle reader, I am still, as the time of this writing, Ser Justin Massey, a knight in service to King Stannis, landless, and not yet a lord. My quill will continue to move through the pages, enlightening you, my faithful reader, of the current history of our great kingdom.

And who is to be made Lord of Winterfell, I hear you ask? _NOT_ my lifelong nemesis, Ser Richard Horpe, I can assure you of that at least. King Stannis has decided that Winterfell should be given to one of the Northern lords, to ensure the support and loyalty of the Northmen. A wise decision, I am sure.

I am sad to report, dear reader, that His Grace has been very much out of temper since the departure of Lord Davos for White Harbor. I strongly suspect that King Stannis is not satisfied with the man he chose to replace Lord Davos as his closest advisor during this absence. Of course, I could have told His Grace at once, if he had seek my counsel, that Richard Horpe would be a poor choice and an unworthy successor to Lord Davos. Alas, my opinion on the matter was never consulted.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III**

I have decided, dear reader, to no longer avoid the contentious subject that must be first and foremost in your mind. The question burning through your head as you are reading my account - _when will he address this matter? Will he avoid it altogether? Can we expect honesty and sincere grappling with this important matter from him?_

You wound me with your lack of faith, reader. I remain, as always, a truth-teller, in all matters contentious or not. Yes, I am talking about the hair. Specifically, the pale-blond, flaxen color of my hair, which has led to some irresponsible speculation regarding a familial relationship between myself and the deposed Targaryens.

Upon the honor of my House, let me assure you, faithful reader, that there is not a single drop of truth in this cruel and irresponsible rumor and speculation. The Massey's family tree has had no dealings with the Targaryens at any point in history. Not very surprising, since the Targaryens tend to wed brothers and sisters to keep the bloodline pure. Nonetheless, there are many a powerful and honorable families in the Seven Kingdoms who cannot say the same thing.

There is another aspect to this speculation that I hesitate to even mention, so deeply does it wound me. Yet my duty as a faithful scribe dedicated to the truth forces me to attend to it as well. No, gentle reader, my dear and beloved late mother did not conceive me in the bed of any Targaryen, by force or willingly. I sincerely hope that I have put paid to this matter, and any and all speculation regarding it will end. The Targaryen is not a family I would be proud to be associated with, the taint of madness being so deep in their blood.

In the meantime, King Stannis' war to win the throne that is rightfully his marches on. We are to journey North, dear reader, to the land of the mountain clans, to gain their support and increase the number in our army. The North is a strange place, with their tree gods and their old ways, and I have my doubts whether support for His Grace would be forthcoming there. Yet I am but a knight in his command, and I will march with him to the ends of the earth, if he wills it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter IV**

_Reader, I married her. The Lady Asha of House Greyjoy, the only surviving child of the late Lord Balon Greyjoy, and thus by the law of the Seven Kingdoms, the rightful ruler of the Iron Islands. Will you join me to rejoice in this great and joyful news, gentle reader? Will you wish me and my new bride all the happiness possible as we embark on our new life, as husband and wife? Lord Justin Massey and Lady Asha Greyjoy, the lord and lady of the Iron Islands._

I beg for your indulgence and patience, dear reader, for in truth the above has not yet come into being. But it is my greatest hope, and my deepest desire, that I will be able to end this account - this truest and indeed most faithful account of the War of the Five Kings – with those very sentences. How did I come to meet this lady? _Is she not a prisoner of King Stannis? -_ I hear some of my readers asking. All will be revealed, my faithful reader, indeed all shall be revealed, in due time.

The last time my quill roamed through these pages, we were about to journey to the land of the mountain clans in the north. “ _Eat their bread and salt, drink their ale, listen to their pipers, praise the beauty of their daughters and the courage of their sons, and you will have their swords_ ,” the boy commander of the Night's Watch had promised King Stannis. Now these things may strike you as not at all hard to endure, and indeed are very pleasurable. As for myself, I am in complete agreement with you, dear reader, but King Stannis is a different type of man altogether. My loyalty to him knows no bounds, yet I have to confess that he is not the most joyful of men, and indeed is not overly fond of the things that might elicit smiles, laughter and amusement in other men.

In fact, as we marched closer and closer to the land of the mountain clans, His Grace appeared more and more ill-at-ease, his teeth grinding louder, his jaw clenching more tightly, as if in anticipation of a truly painful and unendurable ordeal. My heart grieved for him, faithful reader, it truly did. My only consolation in the matter is that Richard Horpe - the gentleman I identified as my nemesis in a previous chapter, if you still recall, kind reader – looked as uncomfortable and ill-at-ease as the king himself. Perhaps even more so, for Horpe enjoys one thing and one thing only in life – killing other men.

Our reception by these clansmen was not as the boy commander had promised. They greeted our arrival quite coldly, colder than even the weather beyond the Wall. The coldest reception we received was from the clan leader the boy commander had told us is called Big Bucket, owing to the size of his belly. Big Bucket, or the Wull, as he is otherwise known, has the most number of men among the clan leaders, and therefore is the most influential and important to court support from.

The Wull did arrange a feast to greet our arrival, and there were indeed bread, salt and ale, as the boy commander had promised, but no piper played and no singer sang that night. The Wull smashed his ale goblet on the table after the feast had gone on for a long time in silence. “We have never heard the songs of southerners in these mountains. How about it? Will your men sing and dance for us, _Lord_ Stannis?”

I can tell you, dear reader, that King Stannis was not amused. Not amused at all. “My men are fighting men, not monkeys here to entertain you,” His Grace replied, his voice cold with fury. The Wull was smiling, but it was a smile full of mockery. Blood could be spilled here tonight, that was my fear, and all will be lost. For King Stannis, and for all of his men. For myself too, of course, though I hasten to assure you, dear reader, that my own fate is the least of my consideration.

It was at that moment, gentle reader, that I started singing, a thoroughly amusing song about a young man knowing the joy of women for the first time. A quite subtle song, nothing too explicit; after all, I was in the presence of Stannis Baratheon. My heart sank at first, dear reader - I am not ashamed to admit - when my song was greeted with complete silence from those present. No clapping, cheering or joining in. But moments after I completed the song, the Wull started singing other verses, cruder, bawdier and infinitely more explicit than the ones I had sung. Indeed, they made my own face blush, even though I myself am not a man inexperienced in the ways of the world. The others joined in and started singing too, northmen and King Stannis' men both, and the feast was finally as the boy commander had promised us it would be.

I should have known, however, faithful reader, that King Stannis would not greet this development with joy. He would not have tolerated this sort of behavior at his own feast. His Grace was fuming, and he was about to stand up and leave the hall, when Richard Horpe whispered something to his ear, looking very insistent. The king grew even angrier, the sound of his teeth grinding could be heard even with all the singing, but he did stay in his seat, his face frowning the whole time.

Now I am not a man blinded by personal sentiments, dear reader, and despite my own feelings for that gentleman, I will admit that on that occasion, Horpe performed a valuable service in counseling the king to stay. I very much doubt, however, that Horpe is graceful enough to acknowledge my own contribution – for I am certain you will agree, dear reader, that were it not for my singing, who knows how the feast might have ended.

It will not surprise you to know that at the end of the feast, the Wull invited me to sing one last song. I knew immediately what the right song would be – a mournful, melancholic ballad about reclaiming lost homes and lost lands and lost honor. Just the sort of thing to stir the northmen's sentiments and feelings about taking back the north from the Boltons and the Lannisters, and supporting King Stannis, I thought. I must confess, however, dear reader, that my own feelings were unexpectedly stirred as well, as genuine tears threatened to spill from my own eyes when I thought of the Massey's ancestral land, lost to us now because of the war. _I will reclaim the honor of our House_ , I vowed at that moment.

Alas, I was so preoccupied I did not notice that King Stannis, the Wull and Richard Horpe had made their way to another room. I am certain, however, that His Grace would have included me in their discussion and negotiation had I not been otherwise engaged. Everything ended well that night, with the clansmen agreeing to fight for King Stannis.

Deepwood Motte was our next destination, to cast out the Ironborn from that castle. Fear not, faithful reader, I will provide a fuller and more complete account of this battle in the next chapter. But for now, I will only tell you that it is there, at Deepwood Motte, that I first caught sight of the lady of whom my quill lingered on at the beginning of this chapter. My first sighting of the Lady Asha was of her holding an axe in her hand, looking fierce and determined. I decided there and then that I would not rest until I have made her my lady wife. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter V**

My quill has stayed silent for a long while indeed. These pages have been waiting patiently to be filled with the truest and most complete account of the War of the Five Kings for quite some time now. Do I detect concern on your part, dear reader, regarding my humble fate? That is most gratifying, most gratifying indeed. I hasten to assure you that I have not come into any harm, my most faithful reader, and that King Stannis’ war for the throne that is his by right continued apace.

There is indeed much to tell you, for much has happened since last my quill roamed through these pages. Now where should I begin? As my late father never tired of reminding me, in all matters big and small, we must begin at the beginning, of course. So Deepwood Motte it shall be.

Regardless of how the Ironborn would later characterize it (for I have no doubt that one of them would soon aspire to write his own account of the battle), taking Deepwood Motte was not a hardship for us at all. The Lady Asha fought the best she could, of course – and she was indeed magnificent, a strong fighter and a strong leader both – but we subdued the Ironborn after only a short battle. King Stannis himself led the battle, as he did during the battle against the wildlings.

 It was a glorious victory, I assure you, dear reader, and I was convinced that defeating the Ironborn led by the kraken’s daughter herself would assure the support of the northmen for King Stannis’ cause. Sadly, I was deeply mistaken, for even before the blood of the Ironborn was dried on our swords, the northmen were clamoring for something quite different. It was Bolton’s blood they demanded now, Lord Bolton and his bastard son, under the guise of rescuing the younger daughter of the late Lord Eddard Stark from the clutches of the Boltons. In short, they wanted King Stannis to take Winterfell from the Boltons.

Now you may have heard various whispers and rumors regarding my reaction to this plan, faithful reader. I strongly suspect Richard Horpe to be the source of most of these malicious rumors, ascribing devious motives for my opposition to the plan to march to Winterfell, such as lack of courage and lack of faith in King Stannis, to name just a few. Let me set the record straight once and for all. Aye, it is true, dear reader, that I opposed the plan from the beginning, but my reasons were entirely honorable, I assure you. It was not lack of courage or lack of faith in King Stannis driving my opposition, but a thoroughly realistic assessment of our slim chances to take Winterfell. The march from Deepwood Motte to Winterfell itself would be long and perilous, especially for the southern men in King Stannis’ army, unused to conditions in the north. And Winterfell itself, despite the glib and confident assurances given by the northmen, is not so easily assailed.

Alas, my voice was only one among the multitudes who were clamoring for the Winterfell plan. There was a moment when I was desperately explaining my misgivings when the king eyes met mine, and for a brief moment, I thought perhaps the king would ignore the louder voices and would give serious considerations to my objections. But to my eternal regret, a few people promptly mentioned the king’s brother, the late King Robert, and how _he_ would have taken Winterfell. Well, that immediately clinched the decision for King Stannis, as I knew it would. Sibling rivalry is a terrible thing to behold, dear reader, and I have never been more glad that I myself am an only child than I was at that moment.

(At this juncture, I can hear you fretting, dear reader, that as an only child, were I to perish in this war, the Massey would be heirless. Fear not, for I am already setting forth on my plan to wed and father a son. More on that later, patient reader).

Of course, much as I disagree with that decision, once King Stannis has taken it, it is not for me to object, only to obey. I was given charge of the baggage cart, an important duty, certainly, but it did mean that Richard Horpe was the one by the king’s side, day and night. Beyond my own personal misgivings for that gentleman (which as you well know are entirely well-deserved on his part, due to his shameful conduct towards me, a man who has done him no wrong whatsoever), I am convinced that Horpe would not counsel the king well, certainly not as well as Lord Davos had. Horpe is entirely too convinced of his own prowess in battle, and the certainty of our victory. What King Stannis needs by his side is a cautioning voice, a man ready to tell him the hard truths.

Would I have been ready to be that man, had King Stannis put his trust on me, instead of on Richard Horpe, I hear you ask? Shame on you! Shame on you indeed. I am sorely disappointed, dear reader, in your lack of faith in me. Perhaps I would not have been as blunt as Lord Davos had always been  in telling the king the hard truths, sweetening them with a sprinkle of sugar here and there (for I believe in not completely destroying a person’s spirit), but I have no doubt that I would have served the king better than Horpe.

There is, however, a silver lining to all the gloom and doom I feel about our march to Winterfell. Lady Asha will be traveling with us, which would accord me with the time and opportunity to get to know the good lady better. And more importantly, for her to witness my good conduct and advantages, for I am certain that she has not met many men of my caliber in her life. I hope to bring you good tidings the next time I write again, my most faithful reader. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter VI**

My dearest reader, I have been feasting my eyes on a sumptuous work of history and literature in recent days  - why, yes, my own account of the War of the Five Kings. How ever did you guess, oh most wise reader? - and it has not escaped my notice that in the first chapter of this work, I made a promise that I would delineate the complete and most truthful history of my contentious relationship with the not-so-gentlemanly gentleman known to you as Richard Horpe. Now I am a man of my words, loyal reader (unlike Horpe, as you will see later), therefore most of this chapter will be devoted to how Richard Horpe and myself were first acquainted.

It would not surprise you to know, discerning reader, that I was once a royal squire, squiring for the late, great King Robert Baratheon, first of his name. What might come as a shock to you is the completely confounding fact that Richard Horpe once counted himself as one of King Robert’s royal squires as well. In fact, our tenure as royal squires overlapped for several years - several long and excruciating years, I am not ashamed to admit. One of the happiest days in my life, dear reader, was when Horpe was finally knighted and had to leave King Robert’s service. My overflowing joy was compounded infinitely by the entirely welcomed news that King Robert had denied Horpe his dreams to serve in the Kingsguard, thereafter consigning Horpe to the inglorious life as a landless, luckless household knight.

But there, I see your brows frowning, my dearest reader, disapproving of my unmethodical and unchronological account of the matter. Fear not, I will now strive to begin at the beginning.

When I came to King’s Landing to serve King Robert, Horpe had already been serving as a royal squire for close to two years. Now this is not at all an indication of his advantages over me in any way, shape or form, I hasten to assure you, gentle reader, but merely an indication of his more advancing years than mine. (You would think that a man older than myself would at least reach the same level of maturity as I have, but sadly, that has never been the case for Richard Horpe). Both Horpe and myself being boys from the Stormlands, the land where King Robert once ruled as lord of Storm’s End, the late king commanded that Horpe should be my guide and mentor in the ways and duties of a royal squire.

As much as it grieves me to admit it now, at the time, I was relieved and even somewhat joyful to have Horpe as my mentor – for the royal squires were teeming with boys from the Westerlands, from Houses loyal to the Lannisters, most of whom looked down on me for not coming from the richest and most prosperous region in the realm. Never mind that House Massey is one of the oldest Houses in the realm, and would put their own Houses to shame in terms of historical significance. Such is the deplorable state of things in our kingdom in recent times that gold dragons and a rich land count for much more than a long and storied history.

Now where was I? Oh yes, Richard Horpe as my guide and mentor. Does it surprise you in the least to learn that Horpe was a most unconvincing and unhelpful guide to my young and innocent self, faithful reader? I should hope not! I hope my tireless effort to open your eyes to Horpe’s nefarious behavior has not been in vain. It is a great wish of mine than a certain lemonwater-drinking king would come across this account of mine, and would come to realize how wrong-headed was his decision to make Richard Horpe his right-hand man after the departure of Lord Davos. But there, I have digressed yet again from the main thrust of this narrative. A thousand apologies, my most indulgent reader.

Horpe basically left me to my own devices, to fend for myself, to sink or swim on my own. “ _It would not do for the other royal squires to think that we are a separate team, distinct and special, merely because we both came from King Robert’s homeland. That will only serve to alienate them from us, and cause further resentments._ ” That was Horpe’s very reasonable-sounding reason for refusing any form of friendship or closeness with me. But I know better, dear reader. I know that his true reasons were rooted in much less noble intentions. In fact, they were very craven, very craven and self-serving indeed.

Beware of jealousy, dear reader, for it is a green-eyed monster terrifying to behold. Before my arrival, Horpe had been The Special One, the one squire King Robert had trusted above all the others, for the king had no fondness and even less trust for the boys loyal to the queen’s House. But as to be expected, my arrival threatened to derail Horpe’s special status with King Robert, especially since the king seemed to be more fond of my company than he was of Richard Horpe’s company.

“That Horpe boy reminds me of Stannis,” I overheard King Robert complaining to Lord Arryn, the Hand of the King. “So very dour and gloomy, and always staring at me as if I have done something wrong.”

“But he is very trustworthy, Your Grace.” Lord Arryn stood up for Horpe. It was not surprising; Lord Arryn was a kind man who had a kind word to say even about the worst kind of monster in the kingdom.

“The Massey boy is trustworthy too. And I can take Justin with me to certain … places … without him looking censorious and disapproving,” King Robert continued. “Perhaps I could make a gift of Richard Horpe to Stannis. The two of them can sit around being dour and disliking everything about the world, even women,” the king mused, chortling.

Lord Arryn cleared his throat. “It is perhaps not women that Stannis and your squire Horpe disapprove of, but women being used by men for their own purposes,” he said warily to the king.

Those were harsh words coming from Lord Arryn. The women always seemed willing and eager to please King Robert, from what I have observed while escorting King Robert to these … well, places. (I leave it to your imagination what these places indeed are, gentle reader. It is my desire to keep this account a family-friendly one. Thus, certain things must be approached with the utmost delicacy. I am certain you will understand my predicament in this matter).

I fully expected the king to explode in anger, dear reader, but instead, King Robert bellowed with laughter. It was one of King Robert’s great charms, faithful reader: his ability to find the oddest and most surprising things funny and hilarious. Much as I admire King Stannis and his many, many talents and abilities, it saddens me to admit that there are times when I fervently wish that a sense of humor is on the list of King Stannis’ qualities.

King Robert never did make a gift of Horpe to his brother. Horpe excelled himself in a tourney celebrating the birth of Princess Myrcella, and was duly knighted by King Robert. The queen, never a favorite of mine for various reasons I will explain further in later chapters, was adamantly opposed to Horpe being made a member of the Kingsguard. She rose greatly in my estimation for that opposition, dearest reader, and Richard Horpe had to satisfy himself with being merely a landless, luckless household knight. I would be lying if I told you that my heart bleeds for the poor man.

What’s that I hear from the back? “ _You are a landless and luckless household knight as well, Ser Justin._ ” You wound me, demanding reader, with your harsh words and your merciless mockery. But I am not a severe and unforgiving man like Richard Horpe is (and as I sometimes fear King Stannis is), so all is forgiven, dear reader, if only you are willing to indulge me in my further adventures. For I have conceived of a plan to transform my regretful circumstances in life, a plan so brilliant and intricate in the details it could not help but succeed. A plan that would require charm, smiles, sweet words and kind treatment, all the things that come as naturally to me as breathing does. You see, gentle reader, that is the absolute brilliance of my plan; all I have to do to execute the plan is to be myself, exactly as I am, as I have always been and will forever be - Ser Justin Massey, The Smiler. Do you see the genius of that, wise reader?

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter VII**

Wine, food, and a good conversation, my dearest reader. What more could a woman, or indeed a man, wish for? The art of seduction, as my good and late lamented mother taught me, lies in those waters, faithful reader. And the existence of my good and honorable self is the proof of my mother’s success in that regard, for how else could the youngest daughter of a penniless hedge knight managed to get herself wed to a Massey from the ancient and illustrious House Massey? My mother’s example is a shining beacon to us all, I am certain you would agree.

My plan, as it were, started the very first day the Lady Asha was put under my charge as King Stannis’ prisoner during our march to Winterfell. Now I cannot tell you how much it grieved me to discover that I was to share this duty with another – for King Stannis thought it prudent that the Lady Asha should have a female gaoler as well, one who could share her sleeping accommodation at night and watches over her when proprietary dictates than I, as a man, cannot. Nay, I have no quarrel with this excellent arrangement. My quarrel, good and faithful reader, is entirely with the identity of this chosen gaoler.

Her name, dear reader, is Alysane. Now indulge me for a moment; close your eyes and say her name softly three times in succession. Now tell me, honest and true, what picture did you form in your own mind regarding this Alysane? A woman soft, scented and pliable, I dare say, with flowing hair and even more flowing gown, with ample bosom you could comfortably rest you weary head on at the end of a long, tiring day.

A woman most men would find more than satisfactory as a lady wife, I should say, though I have to confess that my own taste has changed somewhat in recent days, now that I have caught sight of the good Lady Asha. Give me a woman who could swing an axe and lead men to battle, and I would gladly forgo any softness or scent in the world. Indeed, I would -

Now where was I? Oh yes, back to Alysane the gaoler. Her full name, dear reader, is Alysane Mormont, but she is better known throughout the realm as the She-Bear, both for her Mormont heritage and the fierceness of her own person. Neither of those displeases me, nor do I think it my place to be displeased by them, for the Mormont is a House almost as ancient and as illustrious as House Massey itself, and the strength and courage of their womenfolk has been the stuff of legend from time immemorial. Indeed I would have been more than happy to count Alysane Mormont among my friends, were it not for her dastardly and most unwelcomed interference in my personal concerns, in matters not at all her business.

For I am certain, dearest reader, that it was the She-Bear who planted the seed of suspicion in the mind of Lady Asha, such that she began to doubt my reasons for behaving so cordially towards her, and for my careful ministrations and tender care of her fate as a prisoner. She japes, the Lady Asha, when I bring her wine and food – “will I have to pay with land for that goblet of wine, ser?” – but the sharpness of her gaze tells me that it is more than just a jape. To her credit, the good lady never behaves in any way other than admirably towards myself, befitting her station and mine, but I could sense the wariness behind her gaze, and I suspect, nay, I know, that the She-Bear has been whispering poisonous words to my discredit in Lady Asha’s ears each night before sleep overtakes them.

Now, I have to confess, dear reader, that I do not know the reason behind the She-Bear behaving in this atrocious manner towards myself, for what is it to her if I wish to make Lady Asha my lawfully wedded wife? Mormonts and Greyjoys have never enjoyed a cordial relationship with one another, on account of the latter’s preference for staging violent raids on Bear Island when the menfolk were away. Therefore, true concern about Lady Asha’s fate on the part of the She-Bear could easily and quickly be discounted as a reason. Is it malice towards myself, a man who had done her no wrong at all, driving the She-Bear’s interfering behavior? Or is it something else, something I have overlooked, something unexpected, unforeseen?

I am completely at a loss in this matter, and I would be most grateful for your assistance, my dearest reader, to help illuminate this confounding mystery. For I am not ashamed to admit to you, that wretched as I am by this turn of event, heavily discouraged as I have been by this sudden obstacle placed in the path of true happiness between my good self and Lady Asha, I have been steadily losing my spirit, as well as my appetite. The latter is perhaps not such a bad thing in the dire circumstances that we are in, for we are quickly running out of food supply at the moment, and may be reduced to eating rats and cats soon, if we could find them.

But that is a matter for a different chapter of this account. For now, I leave you with this exciting tiding – the Lady Asha has consented to thank me, and she refers to my good self as her champion! Her champion! My dear reader, it would not surprise you to know that I could scarcely write these words you are reading now for the excitement that is flowing in my veins. I promise to let you know the full detail in the very next chapter, which I will undertake to write once my dwindling supply of ink is no longer frozen solid from this blasted, blasted cold. Till then, keep safe in these dangerous times, and may the gods be with you, whichever god or gods you choose to worship. (Horpe would remind us all that R’hllor is the one and only god, but I have lost my faith in more than that. Richard Horpe, as they say in the parlance of the common, can go pleasure himself, for all I care).


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter VIII**

Disaster, dear reader! Disaster has struck, and it has left me trembling, a mere shell of my normally calm and composed self. I scarcely know where or how to begin, so great is the physical and emotional perturbation I am currently laboring under.

It began, as these things are wont to do, with the arrival of a mysterious stranger from a faraway land. Tycho Nestoris is his name, lending money is his game, and the Iron Bank of Braavos is his claim to fame. Tycho’s business is with King Stannis and not with my good self; hence the man himself does not truly concern us in this account.

No, gentle reader, it is not Tycho Nestoris _himself_ who is the source of the calamity that has sadly befallen me, but one of the Ironborn Tycho had ransomed from Lady Glover at Deepwood Motte to escort him in his quest to find King Stannis. This _particular_ Ironborn had the privilege of knowing Lady Asha of old, and my great concern, nay, my _overwhelming fear_ is that they would seek to renew that bond, now that they have been reunited.

(And yes, I do mean _knowing_ , in _that_ sense, dear reader, and I will pay you the highest compliment of believing that you are wise enough in the ways of the world not to require a more detailed explanation from me on the subject.)

Back to that particular Ironborn who is the source of my current calamity, he who is my new nemesis, my new cross to bear, second only to Richard Horpe - his name, dear reader, is Qarl the Maid.

 _Qarl the Maid_. Have you ever heard of a more ridiculous name? I think not. You would have to call me _Justin the Smiler_ to match the ridiculousness of his name.  

“Is he truly a maid?” I asked the other Ironborn men, half-jesting, half-hopeful. “Not after the kraken’s daughter had her way with him,” one of them had the temerity to snicker. And then they laughed! At me! You can imagine my great consternation, faithful reader. I was tempted to emulate King Stannis’ gesture of loudly grinding his teeth from side to side when he was angry or irritated, but the Ironborn were making so much noise I doubt my teeth-grinding would be heard at all.

(How _does_ King Stannis manage to make his teeth-grinding clearly heard on any occasion? It must require hours and hours of practice. But as we well know, perseverance and King Stannis are the closest of companions.)

Back to my new nemesis, the Maid is not such an imposing physical specimen, I assure you. His cheeks and chin are as smooth as a boy, with not even a peach fuzz in sight, and his hair is kept _far_ too long. When I mentioned this to Lady Asha, she merely raised an eyebrow and pointed towards my own hair. A spectacularly unfair comparison, I’m sure you would agree, dear reader.

 _My sweet lady. My sweet queen._ Oh would that I could silence his presumptuous tongue for uttering those words to Lady Asha!

Here I beg your indulgence to break from the narrative to seek counsel from those among my readers who are skilled and wise in matters of the heart. Should I, or should I not? Utter those words myself, that is. In truth, ‘ _sweet_ ’ is not a word I would particularly associate with Lady Asha, nor is it a description that would gladden her, I would have thought. _My fearless lady. My fierce queen_. Those would suit her much better, in my humble estimation, and yet do those words perhaps lack the aura of romance that ‘ _sweet_ ’ or ‘ _beautiful_ ’ is possessed of?

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thereafter accounts differ markedly. […] Several tell us that [Lucifer] Massey hacked off the arm of Harys Horpe. In one account, Death's Head Harry tossed his battle-axe into his other hand and buried it between Lord Massey's eyes. Other chroniclers suggest Ser Harys simply died. (The Sons of the Dragon)

Faithful reader, as I am writing this account, I am aboard a ship sailing to a secret destination, on my way to perform a clandestine (and most important) mission for King Stannis. Forgive me the cryptic tone of this introduction, gentle reader, for the true nature of the mission entrusted to me by King Stannis _must_ remain hidden for now. The eyes and ears of King Stannis' enemies may be with us, and discretion has to be my watchword until the completion and success of that mission. (Fear not, dear reader, I do not intend to return a failure, and I _shall_ not return a failure, of this I promise you.)

Late at night, as I sit in my cabin, alone and palely loitering, my thoughts inevitably turn to the Lady Asha. Reader, I miss her. I miss her terribly. I confess this to you without shame or embarrassment, for a true knight – a _gallant_ knight – is never ashamed of displaying tender feelings and sentiments. Only those deeply insecure in their own manhood (such as a knight whose name shall not pass my lips, though it rhymes with corpse) are afraid of confessing love, longing and yearning.

The aforementioned knight – well, since you insist, dear reader, Richard Horpe is his name – is possibly at this very moment trying his best to woo the Lady Asha, taking advantage of my absence. Not for love. Not for affection. Solely for the Iron Islands, of course.

Wooing a woman has never been Horpe's strongest suit, so his method mainly consists of belittling _me_ , his greatest rival, in the eyes of Lady Asha. There was the time he questioned my courage in front of Lady Asha, all but calling me a cowardly craven. There was also the time he interrupted, uninvited, during a conversation in which I was recounting to Lady Asha the exploits of various ancestors of mine, to reassure her, gentle reader, that should she choose to wed me, she would not be marrying into a feckless family, but an old and honorable one.

“There was Triston Massey, Aegon the Conqueror's first master of laws,” I began.

“Wasn't he a turncloak?” questioned the Lady Asha.

“A turncloak, my lady?”

“House Massey was sworn to House Durrandon and Storm's End, but Triston Massey fought on the side of the dragon. I have heard Lord Stannis … forgive me ... _King_ Stannis speaking of this matter. He is not fond of turncloaks, as you well know, Ser Justin.”

“King Stannis' own ancestor Orys Baratheon also fought on the side of Aegon the Conqueror. It was Lord Orys himself who slew the last Durrandon king,” I pointed out, dear reader, with some asperity.

“I'm certain King Stannis would remark that Orys Baratheon was not a turncloak. He was _always_ sworn to the dragon. He did not change side, unlike your ancestor Triston Massey.”

It was time to depart from the contentious subject of Triston Massey, I wisely judged. “There was also Maldon Massey, who built our castle Stonedance. He once ruled the entirety of Massey's Hook.”

“I'm sure each house has an ancestor who built its castle. _Someone_ has to built it, or it will not exist at all,” Lady Asha replied, looking _very_ amused, to my distress and heartbreak.

“Have you heard of Justin Massey the pirate king?” I tried again.

Lady Asha laughed. “Is this a future reference to yourself, Ser? Are you looking to change your vocation from a knight to a pirate?”

I hastened to reassure her that this was not the case. “The pirate king was _another_ Justin Massey, one who defied the Storm King and liberated the Massey's land from the rule of Storm's End. Justin Milk-Eye, he was known as.”

To my great relief, faithful reader, Lady Asha seemed more interested in _this_ ancestor of mine. “Why was he known as Justin Milk-Eye?” she queried.

Before I had the chance to reply, Richard Horpe interrupted us. Rudely. “Has he mentioned that ancestor of his who fought on the side of Maegor the Cruel, the _worst_ king this realm has ever known? The Massey killed by my own ancestor Ser Harys Horpe.”

“Lucifer Massey was _not_ killed by Death's Head Harry,” I objected, strenuously. “That is slander! Absolute slander. He -”

Lady Asha turned to Horpe with interest. “You have an ancestor who was known as Death's Head Harry? Tell me more about this figure, Ser Richard.”

Before Horpe could reply, I quickly explained to Lady Asha that there was nothing interesting or fascinating about the Death's Head moniker. It was merely the result of the Horpe's sigil – three death's-head moths on a field of ash and bone. “It has nothing to do with anything this Harys Horpe ever achieved in his life. We could call Richard here Death's Head Richie, and it would mean just as little.”

“He managed to achieve burying his axe between Lucifer Massey's eyes,” Horpe replied sharply, furious at being called Richie.

“An axe? Now _that_ is a weapon I respect,” Lady Asha said with a smile. Indeed, dear reader, I myself have heard Lady Asha saying on multiple occasions that she wishes to die with an axe in her hand.

Imagine, dear reader, if you could, my severe distress at this unfortunate turn of event. I had intended to regale Lady Asha with tales of my illustrious ancestors, but it was the tale of Richard Horpe's ancestor that she found more interesting. Even the name _Lucifer_ Massey – a most wonderful-sounding name, I have often thought – elicited no response at all from her.

I was not yet ready to surrender, however. I brought up the fact that Harys Horpe had his arm hacked off by my ancestor Lucifer Massey, and thus it was very unlikely that he could have buried his axe between _anyone's_ eyes. Horpe retorted that Harys' _other_ hand was still available, and we argued about the possibility of survival after suffering an amputation well above the elbow. The shock and the blood loss alone would have left him too weakened to pick up an axe, let alone bury it in the eyes of the man who was strong enough to hack off his arm in the first place. The argument went on for a long time, culminating with Richard Horpe challenging me to a Horpe-Massey rematch, to defend the honor of our respective ancestors.

At this point we finally realized that Lady Asha had left our company and returned to her tent.


End file.
